


Hanging By A Moment

by RedTeamShark



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (that tag really applies more to chapter 1), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anonymous Sex, Author Has Read 0.5 Of A Comic Book Once, Clubbing, Communication, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Deaf Clint Barton, Flirting, Incongruous Technology, It grew a plot when I wasn't looking, M/M, Might be set in the late 90s/early 2000s, Misunderstandings, Modern Bucky Barnes, Morning After, One Night Stands, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, Seriously it's just a shitton of pining in chapter 2, Slutty Clint Barton, Surprise It Has A Plot, Trick Arrows, Unplanned Sequel Chapter, formal wear, inebriated consent, might be an excuse for no one to have a smartphone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: Clint doesn't wake up next to the same person two nights in a row... but with Bucky, he thinks he could make an exception.Bucky did his time with danger while he was in the Army... but with Clint, the risk seems more than worth the reward.A one night stand, a slipped secret identity, a chance for both of them to have something good in their lives. What could go wrong?(No scheduled updates, very much a by-the-seat-of-my-pants WIP. Formerly titled "No Tomorrow, Just Right Now.")
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 113
Collections: After Dark Presents Nutvember 2020





	1. No Tomorrow, Just Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> Title Inspo: Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse
> 
> 12/12/20: I'm reworking this story, which was originally just chapter 1 as a smutty one-shot, into something bigger against my own hesitations. Tag wrangling to come. Updates sporadically at best when I get ideas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky’s clearly into him, clearly trying to get him to warm up, and he could put in the effort, ask a few questions, bat his eyelashes and pout his lips… Or he could jump to the point. “You want to go somewhere and fuck?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Inspo: DJ Got Us Falling In Love by Usher feat. Pitbull
> 
> I don't consider Bucky or Clint drunk enough to be unable to give informed consent during this, but if drunk(ish) sex isn't your jam, this story probably isn't for you.

Slipping away from his handler (babysitter, that's all the mild-mannered pencil-pusher really is) is almost too easy. Clint ducks out of the building with his hood up and his hands in his pocket, cuts across two alleys, and heads down to the subway without a backwards glance. He pushes the hood off as soon as he's on the train to Brooklyn, leaning back against the support rail and looking across the train car. No one even giving him a second glance. New York might be crazy and overwhelming, but it's the perfect place to just blend in.

He doesn't know where he's going, not exactly, but he knows what he _wants_ to go to. A place where he can be anonymous, not former circus freak, current S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Clint Barton, but just Clint (if he even uses his real name). A place he can get drunk, dance with a hot stranger, and offer himself up as an easy lay.

A place he can get his new line of work off his mind.

It takes a little asking around once he's in Brooklyn, but not as much as he'd have expected. The club is subtle, just another brick-fronted building in a sea of them, but even from the sidewalk he can feel the music that's pulsing inside. There's a line of other young men outside, some alone and some in pairs or small groups, and Clint pulls his hoodie off before he joins the back of the line. The autumn evening is chilly, but he wants to make his intentions as obvious as possible from the start, and the tank top and tight jeans are going to do that better than his battered, oversized sweatshirt.

He doesn’t have a dead drop in Brooklyn, not yet, S.H.I.E.L.D. has kept him on his toes in the six months he’s been in New York, but he has enough cash to get himself inside and get a few drinks and he has an ID that--Clint pulls it out of his pocket, frowning. Apparently he _is_ going to be Clint Barton tonight. He thought he’d grabbed a fake, but it’s fine. Judging by how fast the line is moving, the doorman is barely checking anyways.

Within minutes he’s inside, the air warm and thick with the smells of cigarette smoke, cologne, and sweat. The music he’d been able to feel outside is even louder inside, the bass vibrating up his legs and into his chest. Considering that any conversation is going to have to be shouted anyways, he plucks his hearing aids out and tucks them into his pocket.

First stop the bar, two shots of sweet, burning vodka to start his night off. He’s checking the room on instinct, counting people, assessing faces. This isn’t a job, but turning his work brain off is harder and harder when he’s sober. He picks out a few spots among the shifting crowds, mentally calculating the odds of each one. The dance floor is the best bet of finding someone who will take him to bed and fuck him until he stops thinking. The bar is better for a conversation he’s not in the mood to have, same with the scattered seating areas.

Clint sways onto the dance floor, letting the vibrations of the bass guide his movements, letting the ebb and flow of bodies around him and against him take his mind away. God, so many of these people are drunk and oblivious already and it’s barely past sunset. He could rob half of them blind, pickpocket his way across the dance floor and go spend his ill-gotten funds on getting drunk enough to forget the last week.

The temptation to do just that is strong, but when arms wrap around his waist from behind, when bold thumbs slip into his belt loops, Clint just about forgets it. He doesn’t tense up, doesn’t throw the person over his shoulder and to the floor, just rocks his hips back into the body pressed against him and turns his head enough to get a look in the flashing lights.

Dark hair swept back from the face, intense eyes that are bright and aware, not clouded with alcohol. Full lips that move in words he doesn’t quite catch--”... _look like… ing alone…”_ \--before twisting into a smirk as the hands on his hips squeeze. 

He’s certainly found a handsome stranger who seems interested.

Clint grins, setting his hands over the ones on him, rocking himself along with the stranger. He guides fingers to explore, over his thighs and up his sides, boldly presses himself back and grinds his ass into the man’s crotch. It’s a little awkward, he’s got a good few inches of height on the man, but he can work with it. 

One finger hooks into his belt loop as the song ends, the man tugging him off the dance floor, back towards the bar. Dammit, and he’d been hoping that this would be easy. If the guy wants to _talk_ , he’s going to have to find a reason to bail and look for someone else.

 _“...buy… drink?”_ the stranger asks over his shoulder and Clint shrugs, points to his ears.

“I’m Deaf, gotta look at me to talk to me,” he says, uncaring if his words are too quiet or too loud.

He must be at a decent volume, because the man stops, turns around fully and looks at him. _“Can I buy you a drink?”_ It’s not spoken overly slowly, not over-enunciated, and Clint grins.

“Sure!” He gives a quick thumbs-up, following the stranger to the bar and letting the man order for him. Some fancy cocktail, two glasses placed in front of them as the bartender mixes and flips the shaker and pours something bright pink into each glass, topping it with a cherry. He takes a sip, takes in the fruity flavor and the sting of alcoholic aftertaste, and grins. “You have good taste.”

 _“I know what I like,”_ he agrees, sipping his own drink, careful to hold the glass away from his mouth when he talks. _“I’m Bucky. You?”_

He _should_ lie, pick an alias, but Clint looks up into the man’s eyes and his brain shuts off for a second too long. They’re gorgeous, dilated in the dark club but he can just see a ring of bright blue around the black iris and he’s not one to wax poetic, but there’s something cheesy about _endless pools_ that itches at the back of his mind.

 _“What?”_ Bucky asks, laughing. _“The music is back on,”_ he adds, gesturing to his own ears.

“My name’s Clint.” He knows the music is back, he can feel it again, and he’s not entirely sure that he actually said his name the first time. Oh, god, did he say that purple prose bullshit out loud? Clint takes another drink to try to hide his embarrassment, plucking the cherry from his glass and popping it, stem and all, into his mouth.

Bucky’s hand touches his knee, slides up to his thigh gradually as he finishes his drink. He raises an eyebrow, probably at the faces Clint’s making, but starts laughing as he glances at Clint’s glass. _“Are you doing the cherry stem thing to try to impress me?”_

Clint grins, spits his cherry stem--bent in several places and nearly ripped in half from getting caught on his teeth--into his napkin. “Is it working?”

 _“No.”_ Bucky laughs harder, but his hand stays on Clint’s thigh, warm and firm, thumb rubbing gently over the inseam of his jeans. _“Are you local?”_

He’s not here for small talk, for getting-to-know-you, for seeing someone again. He keeps telling himself that, but somehow can’t think of an excuse to get away from Bucky. “Sort of. I live in Manhattan, but I moved here from--” _all over_ , he almost finishes, biting it down “--Iowa.”

 _“Farm boy.”_ Bucky nods, almost to himself, his hand moving from Clint’s thigh up to his bicep, rubbing the muscle appreciatively. _“Explains the arms. I guessed you were a gym rat.”_

It’s polite to laugh, so Clint does, finishing his drink and sitting forward. Bucky’s clearly into him, clearly trying to get him to warm up, and he could put in the effort, ask a few questions, bat his eyelashes and pout his lips… Or he could jump to the point. “You want to go somewhere and fuck?”

Even in the shifting, flashing lights of the club, he sees Bucky’s blush. He has half a second to rethink his plan, before the other man swallows, throat bobbing visibly, and nods. _“Sure. My place is close.”_

Once they’re outside Clint puts his hearing aids back in, letting Bucky’s hand slip into his back pocket as they walk. He shivers slightly, curses himself for dropping his hoodie off somewhere along the way and not picking it up again, but Bucky presses a little closer, shares body heat. Outside under the streetlights he’s quieter, his face drawn in slightly. Clint studies him from the corner of one eye, trying to read what might be wrong.

“You don’t do this a lot, huh?” he asks finally, making Bucky stop short on the sidewalk. Clint shrugs. “The whole, taking a stranger to bed thing.”

“Never done it before,” Bucky mutters after a moment, looking down. “I didn’t--I don’t know what I expected.”

“Well… hey…” Clint tips his chin up with a finger, leans in and kisses him. He’s not drunk, but he makes it sloppy anyways, hums under his breath as Bucky returns the gesture. “We don’t gotta, but you’re hot, you thought I was hot enough to come dance with me. Why not see where it goes?” Best case scenario, it goes to bed and Clint wakes up in the morning and sneaks out while Bucky’s still sleeping, but he’s not going to point that out.

The other man hesitates a moment, before a small, almost shy smile graces his lips. “Yeah… Why not?” He walks forward again with more confidence, his hand firm on Clint’s ass.

Bucky’s apartment isn’t too far away, a small studio overlooking a park. The elevator is broken but he’s only on the third floor and Clint’s genuinely impressed with the place. There’s a kitchenette, a workstation with what he guesses is a top-of-the-line computer, and a bedroom nook behind a partial wall. He kicks his shoes off at the entry, pulling Bucky in for another kiss. “You wanna make us some drinks?” He wasn’t drunk yet to begin with, but the crisp night air has definitely brought some unwanted clarity with it.

After a moment, Bucky nods, moving to the kitchen and opening the fridge. “I don’t have anything fancy.”

“Good thing I’m not a fancy guy, then.” Clint heads for the bedroom without preamble, makes himself comfortable on the neatly made bed. He double-checks his pockets, but all he has tonight is an ID and a few dollars in cash. That can all stay put when his pants come off. He raises his voice slightly so that Bucky can hear him from the other side of the wall. “No couch but a comfy bed. You sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Does the experienced hook-up act look better than the blushing virgin?” Bucky joins him in the bedroom nook, passing him a glass and sitting down. “Rum and coke, about the fanciest thing I can mix up on short notice.” He takes a sip, looking more relaxed, his hand settling on Clint’s thigh again. “What made you want to move to New York?”

This isn’t a date and the less Bucky knows about him the better, really. Clint takes a drink, putting his hand over Bucky’s and sliding it higher. “Work. When’s the last time you got laid?”

Fingers flex minutely against the zipper of his jeans, just barely daring to stroke the metal. “Sort of a personal question.”

“You started it.” He’s being too evasive, or maybe just too forward with someone that doesn’t want the same thing. Clint finishes his drink, leaning over Bucky to set the glass on the table, slowly pushing him down onto the bed rather than getting back into his own space. “I’ll be honest, if you want.”

A pink tongue darts out to wet pinker lips and Bucky nods. “Please.”

“I came out tonight to find someone who would fuck me so good, I’d forget the last week of my life. The way you started dancing with me, I figured you were that someone. You’ve been eye-fucking me since we sat down at the bar and you can barely keep your hands off me. So I don’t really care about getting to know you, or calling you later, or seeing each other again. If you want a good fuck, I’m here and willing. If you regret it in the morning, just blame the alcohol.” He exhales as he finishes the little speech, watching Bucky’s flushed face, watching him work through the words.

After a moment, the brunet leans in, threads one hand into his hair and pulls Clint down, kissing him. “Pardon me for putting in the effort to seduce you,” Bucky whispers, fingers tightening and making Clint moan.

“You had me seduced as soon as you put your hands on me.”

Bucky rolls them over, pins Clint under him and kisses him harder, hands roaming over his body. His back arches, helping get his tank top up so that the man can play with his nipples. His own dexterous fingers betray him for once, fumble as he tries to undo Bucky’s jeans, and Clint lets out an impatient growl.

They part long enough to toss their shirts aside and then Clint flips them again, pins Bucky down and brushes his lips over the man’s chest. He feels as much as hears the gasp, grins and takes one dusky nipple into his mouth, biting down lightly before working his tongue over it. Whether Bucky is the blushing virgin or the club slut doesn’t really matter, Clint’s doing this for himself more than anything else.

The flipping and teasing can’t last long, the kisses growing more demanding with each minute. Clint slots his leg between Bucky’s thighs, feels the man’s erection grind against him and laughs a little, breathless. “Yeah, okay. Condom?”

“Top drawer.” Bucky jerks his head towards the bedside table, leaning back against the pillow and breathing hard. “I’ve got lube there, too.”

“And a little friend. You get lonely a lot?” Clint teases lightly as he opens the drawer, a sleek metal plug rolling against the box of condoms with the movement. He pulls out two along with the bottle of lube, putting all three on the nightstand and getting to work on his pants.

“A man has needs. How do you want to…” Bucky props himself up on one arm, words trailing off as Clint stands naked in front of him. “Holy fuck. That ain’t a farm boy body.”

Self-consciousness is for people who call later. Clint just grins, turning slowly to show off the muscles and scars. “You’re the one who said I was a farm boy, not me. But how ‘bout I show you a thing or two I learned about riding?”

The effort it takes Bucky to swallow is visible, and he nods quickly, looking down to get his own pants off. Clint takes a moment to appreciate his body, broad and toned but not overly muscled, skin smooth and unmarred. He looks like any other urban professional who works out two or three times a week. Like a hundred other guys Clint has met at a club. It’s not until Bucky reaches up and pulls his swept-back hair out of the bun it was in that it really clicks for Clint. 

Shit. He’s hot.

Normally that thought doesn’t give him much pause-- _most_ people are pretty hot to Clint, his ‘type’ can be boiled down to ‘consenting adult’ in most cases--but Bucky… Hell, he almost wants to change his one-night-stands-only policy, just to have a chance to explore him more thoroughly. Just to run his fingers through that hair and see if it’s as silky smooth as it looks, preferably while Bucky’s lying on the couch with his head in Clint’s lap.

Yeah, he reminds himself, and then some assassin from one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s enemies can swing by and use Bucky as a weakness against him. One night stands only. No emotions. Nothing long term.

“Fuck,” he says anyways, climbing onto Bucky’s lap and threading his fingers into the man’s hair, groaning softly at the silky-smooth texture, at the wave of aroma from his shampoo. “You’re goddamn beautiful.” He doesn’t mean to say the words out loud, but they’re there, whispered into the minimal space between them, and Bucky laughs a little awkwardly.

“Thanks… So’re you.” Bucky pulls him in, kisses him again and rocks his hips up, the head of his dick brushing against Clint’s thigh lightly.

They need to slow down, regain some focus before things go further. Condoms and lube, that’s what he was doing, that’s what he needs to keep doing. Clint’s head is swimming pleasantly, a combination of anticipatory arousal and the apparently strong drink Bucky made them. He has a moment to wonder if he accidentally got himself drugged, but nothing about this man has his guard up, so odds are against being roofied. And if he’s wrong… well, he did say he wanted to forget for a while.

With more effort to focus than it should take, they manage to each get a condom on. Clint slicks two of his fingers while Bucky lubes himself up, slides them in with a groan and scissors them apart. It strains his shoulder in a way he hates, in a way he’s going to feel at the range tomorrow, but the way Bucky’s eyes zero in on his face, pupils blown wide like at the bar, it’s worth it. Clint throws his head back and exaggerates his moans, rocking his hips back and forth on his fingers.

“Clint.” Bucky growls out and oh, god, his name on this man’s lips. “Get over here. Wanna be inside you.”

He’s not going to argue. Clint pulls his fingers free, wiping his hand off on the sheets and lining himself up, feeling Bucky’s hand on his hip guide him down. He lowers himself slowly, groaning and gripping Bucky’s shoulders, his body tensing and flexing as he accepts the penetration.

They sit like that for a while, hands on each other, both breathing harshly. Clint’s thighs are shaking, his cock leaking inside the condom with pleasure. God, it feels so good just to be filled, no room in his brain for anything else--

And then Bucky moves, just a small rock of his hips, and Clint’s mind _really_ shuts up, thoughts turning staticky and tinged only with _yesmoreyes_. He moves with the next small thrust, meets it and finds the rhythm, all of his focus only on the pleasure between them.

He’s genuinely not expecting it when the grip on his hips firms up, when Bucky thrusts up and tips them, presses him down to the bed. Clint lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his legs around the man’s waist and pulling him in closer. “Thought you wanted me to ride you.”

“Thought so too.” Bucky picks up the pace and Clint lets himself fall into it, meets his thrusts with little gasping moans. One of Bucky’s hands releases the death grip on his hip, wraps around his cock instead and strokes. Clint arches up into the touch, the angle between them changing with the movement, and he nearly screams as Bucky’s cock brushes his prostate.

“Fuck, there, right there,” he pants out, chasing the sparks of pleasure that shoot up his spine, every muscle clenching and flexing around the cock inside him. Bucky groans, his hips stuttering their rhythm, his face pressing into Clint’s shoulder as he ruts into him. The hand on his cock squeezes almost painfully, before Bucky’s holding still, breathing hard.

He pulls out slowly and Clint lets him go, reaches down and resumes stroking himself. He sees the eyes on him, the flush on Bucky’s face as he realizes, and grins easily, spreading his legs a little to make a show of it, turning his wrist just right. Clint knows his own body, knows how to get himself off quickly, and it’s barely two minutes before his head drops back, cock twitching in his hand as he fills the condom.

They lie there panting, staring up at the ceiling, and after a moment Clint props himself up on one arm, holding onto himself so the condom doesn’t slip off as he goes soft. “Bathroom?” He asks, sliding out of bed and going in the direction Bucky points, tossing the used condom into the trash. He finds a washcloth under the sink, wipes himself up quickly and leaves it in a heap on the counter as he heads back to the studio’s main room.

“I got a trash can here, too,” Bucky mumbles, gesturing towards the side of the bed. He tosses his condom in it with a yawn, tugging his boxers back on and tilting his head towards the bed. “You wanna…”

Clint should say no. He should get dressed, go back to the club and try to find his hoodie, get back to headquarters before too many people notice he’s gone. But… but he thinks about being able to fall asleep on Bucky’s pillow, smelling his shampoo and laundry soap, feeling a warm body against his own. He thinks, briefly, about the week he just had and how long the trip back to S.H.I.E.L.D. is going to feel on top of that. After a moment, Clint nods, tugging his underwear out of the pool of his clothes and slipping them on, joining Bucky in bed. “I probably won’t be here in the morning,” he warns, letting Bucky tuck against his chest, wrapping his arms around the man and getting comfortable.

“S’fine. Like you said, just a good fuck.” He tilts his head up slightly, eyes drawing Clint in again, and he’s gonna blame the haze of alcohol for how much he wants to wax poetic about those blue eyes. “Thanks. This was good.”

“I try.” Clint lets one last kiss linger against Bucky’s lips before he lies back, closes his eyes and tries to get a few hours of sleep.

* * *

“Barton.”

Clint groans, shifting under the body on top of him, opening one eye. He lets out a little yelp and whoever’s in bed with him-- _Bucky, his name is Bucky and we fucked last night_ , his racing mind fills in--rolls over with a little whine. “Coulson, what the _fuck_ ,” he whispers to the man in the doorway, pulling the sheets up to cover himself and his bedmate a little more.

“We got a lead on the Black Widow. Budapest. It’s your job, Barton.” Coulson looks thoroughly unperturbed to have found him in a random Brooklyn studio apartment, almost naked and in bed with a stranger.

“I just got done with a job,” he mutters, already slipping out from under the sheets, grabbing his pants and shirt off the floor. He pushes past Coulson to put his shoes on, sparing one glance back at the bed, at Bucky moving to curl into the warmth where Clint was a minute ago. “We have time to stop for coffee before I’m on the plane?”

“No, I stopped for coffee before coming to get you.” They exit the apartment silently, start trudging down the stairs. “Do we need to send a clean up crew?”

“He was just a one night stand. Doesn’t even know my real name, I told him it was James.”

Coulson gives him a critical look over, but shrugs, sliding behind the wheel of the waiting car. Clint drops into the passenger seat, picking up the cup of coffee and the file under it.

“How did you find me, anyways? I thought I slipped security.”

“You slipped building security, but I had your ID chipped. Gave you as much time off as I could.” He shrugs, merging into pre-dawn traffic--New York really does never sleep--and heading for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s airstrip. “We’ve sent someone to the club to retrieve your sweater and erase you from the security footage.”

God, he’d rather be back in bed with Bucky. Maybe waking up lazy, walking with him down the sidewalk to a cafe for coffee and scones. Clint allows himself the daydream only briefly, before looking at the file more closely. “Wait--you want her captured _alive_?”

“She may have information we can use. So… take this assignment carefully.”

Careful. Right.

Well, here comes another week he’s going to want to forget. Clint mentally crosses Brooklyn gay clubs off his list of places to meet one night stands, at least for a little while. He doesn’t want to risk running into Bucky again. Something there feels too… _possible_ for him to entertain it.


	2. For Just One Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s doing a great job of not spending every waking moment thinking about Clint, goes a full twelve hours without the other man crossing his mind ... and then, just as he’s stopping at a cafe for breakfast on the way home, there he is._   
>  _Like some sort of hallucination._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Inspo: Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy
> 
> Shoutout to [FeistyEpicurean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeistyEpicurean/pseuds/FeistyEpicurean) and [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions) down in the chapter 1 comments, who got me thinking too much about a sequel between these two.

Bucky wakes up alone. He pulls the sheet a little tighter around himself in the late morning sun, turning into the empty space in the bed beside him. It’s not even a little warm with Clint’s lingering presence. He really wasn’t joking about one night only.

He gets himself out of bed slow, looking around at the mess he’s left the apartment in. Evidence of what he went out and did last night: his clothes in a heap on the floor, a used condom in the trash can, a crumpled washcloth in the sink. Two glasses on the bedside table, tinted water at the bottom where the melting ice mixed with the last of the rum and coke as they slept. A slight dent in the other pillow on his bed, the only real evidence that Clint was sleeping at all.

“He was a one night stand because you needed to get laid, get over it,” Bucky mutters to himself as he makes coffee and toast, his eyes flicking to the front door. He’d bolted it when he got in, just habit, and it’s not bolted now. He crosses the room, turns the lock back up. He’s a little impressed, honestly, that Clint was able to wake up and sneak out like that. Even a few drinks usually leave Bucky needing about twelve hours of solid sleep, the idea of someone being able to get up at the crack of dawn and be out the door is a novelty to him.

After coffee comes a shower, hot as he can stand it to try to wash away last night’s bad decisions. Bucky gathers up his clothes on the way to his closet afterwards, frowning as something falls from the pile. He stoops lower, picks it up and turns it in his fingers. Flexible plastic, a New York driver’s license. He flips it over, only a little surprised to see Clint’s smiling face on the other side.

“Idiot,” Bucky mutters affectionately, reaching to put the ID on his bedside table. He’s got some running around to do today, he’ll drop it in a mailbox while he’s out. The license will make it back to Clint eventually.

Or… He could deliver it himself. Beside the picture is a name-- _Barton, Clint_ \--and an address that’s not too terribly far away. 

Except there’s words echoing in his head, a truth just before they’d gotten down to what they both wanted. _“I don’t really care about getting to know you, or calling you later, or seeing each other again.”_ If he goes to bring Clint his ID back, he’ll probably be rebuffed. Even if it’s just to be nice, not to--to try to start something.

Bucky scrubs a hand against his face, indecisive. For fuck’s sake, it was a one night stand, he barely knows anything about Clint Barton besides his name and that he’s really hot and _really_ good in bed. And that Bucky had felt an easy chemistry with him, an openness that he’d let himself be welcomed by for once in his damn life, going up and dancing with the man, knowing exactly where they both wanted it to lead.

Then again.

There’s the way Clint looked at him, the way he’d crawled into Bucky’s lap, stroked fingers through his hair and whispered _“You’re goddamn beautiful,”_ like he was speaking some secret, sacred truth. The way he’d gone a little pink after saying the words, like they were only supposed to be a thought. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking and alcohol hazing the memory…

Or maybe Clint felt like there could be more than one night between them, too. Maybe that’s why he was so determined to leave so fast.

Bucky makes his mind up right then and there. He gets dressed, writes a short note, puts his shoes on and heads out the door. He’ll take a stroll up the eight or ten blocks to Clint’s address, drop the ID and his phone number off, then go about his life. Leave the ball in Clint’s court on whether or not to call him.

* * *

Three weeks later, Clint’s ID is still in his wallet, still wrapped in a piece of paper with his number on it.

Turns out Bucky’s kind of a coward.

He’d gotten to the building, taken a look, gone so far as to climb the front steps. His finger had been hovering at the button for Clint’s unit and then he’d thought--

It doesn’t matter what he’d thought, not really. He’d fled, he’d let three weeks go by, and by now Clint’s probably gotten around to the DMV and gotten a new ID, so it’s way too late to do anything about it.

He’s doing his best to forget it, because it _was_ only a one night stand. He works, he goes home, sometimes he hangs out with his few friends. He doesn’t go out to the bar again, doesn’t look for a hook-up. He’s doing a great job of not spending every waking moment thinking about Clint, goes a full twelve hours without the other man crossing his mind--mostly thanks to a catastrophe at work that calls him in for an emergency overnight shift, Thursday into Friday spent up to his eyeballs in crossed wires and poorly coded programs--and then, just as he’s stopping at a cafe for breakfast on the way home, there he is.

Like some sort of hallucination.

Bucky’s first instinct, driven by shock and sleep deprivation, is to hide. He ducks into an alley, peers around the corner and confirms that yes, that’s Clint. Tall and lanky and scruffy, wearing baggy jeans and a baggier hoodie, sitting at a table outside the little corner diner and drinking coffee. There’s someone with him, a red haired woman sitting close by, and as Bucky watches, Clint slips an arm around her shoulders, comfortable and familiar and--oh.

 _Oh_.

He’s trying, really goddamn trying, to make himself walk away. They weren’t anything more than one drunk night, Clint was perfectly clear about that. It doesn’t hurt to see him with someone else, even if she’s apparently good enough to get breakfast with. Even if she’s maybe good enough to go back to Clint’s place.

(Yes, okay, he’s changed his route to and from work to pass Clint’s apartment, just on the off chance he sees the man and can return his ID--that’s the only reason, he’s been lying to himself.)

While Bucky’s busy denying the internal crisis he’s having about his _one night stand, get over it you idiot,_ he doesn’t notice the eyes that lock on him. He doesn’t notice the redhead shrug off the arm around her and stand. He’s not even aware he’s been seen until someone shoves him further into the alley and puts a knife at his throat.

“Jesus, just take my wallet--” Bucky gasps out, staring wide-eyed at the woman that Clint was just with as she pins him against the wall. “I’ve only got like thirty bucks.”

“Кто ты?”

“What?”

“Natasha!” Another voice cuts in, Clint stepping into the alley, wrinkling his nose at the garbage smell. Bucky tries to make himself focus. He’s got a damn knife to his throat, he shouldn’t be thinking about how cute the other man looks with his nose all scrunched up like that. “What the fuck?” Clint’s eyebrows furrow, before shooting up towards his hairline. “ _Bucky_?”

One day in the future, possibly when he’s talking to a therapist, he’s going to analyze why his first thought in this situation is _He’s been thinking about me, too!_ This level of investment in a drunk club hook-up can’t be healthy.

“Uh, hey, Clint.” He’s still holding out his wallet for his would-be mugger, Bucky realizes. At least the knife has come away from his throat slightly. Slowly, carefully, he opens it up and pulls out Clint’s ID. “You left this at my place, uh, three weeks ago.”

The redhead woman--Natasha?--looks between them, incredulous. “You left _your ID_ on a job? I thought SHIELD were professionals.”

Clint’s smile is almost bashful as he steps forward, takes the ID and the paper and tucks both into his pocket without looking. He glances from Natasha to Bucky and back, before shrugging. “Wasn’t a job. Put the knife away, Tasha. Bucky’s…” He bites his lip for a moment, suddenly looking unsure. The easy confidence he’d had at the club, at Bucky’s place, is replaced with something softer, younger somehow. How to introduce his one night stand to his girlfriend, Bucky thinks bitterly. “Он гражданский,” Clint finishes eventually.

“Гражданский.” Natasha shakes her head, stepping back and looking him up and down, cool and assessing. “He could still be a spy.”

“I’m a software engineer, actually.” Bucky doesn’t intend for the words to come out, he’s still confused and more than a little terrified of this woman, but there they are, hanging in the air between them. “I fix other programmer’s mistakes,” he adds on, feeling the awkward weight settle over them.

And then Clint starts laughing, and somehow, some way, everything seems like it’s going to be okay.

* * *

All of that uncertainty and hesitance, and Bucky manages to _forget_ that he gave Clint his number the minute he walks away.

Blame the surprise twelve hour work shift, maybe.

He takes his weekend off as the gift it is, however, isn’t even on call Friday or Saturday. Bucky heads out with friends Saturday night--not to a club, he hasn’t been back to a club since the night he hooked up with Clint--but just to a place over in Queens for dinner and drinks. He gets in late, stares in confusion at the blinking light on his answering machine, still a little tipsy. He hasn’t been really drunk since that night with Clint, either, come to think of it.

It isn’t work. It _better_ not be work. He’s not on call this weekend, someone else in the department is, and really, _really_ , Stark Industries Manhattan should be able to get up and running without him.

Bucky hits play on the message while he undresses, determined that even if it _is_ work, he isn’t going to acknowledge it until well into Monday.

 _“Oh, shit, guess you’re out--”_ It’s not work. He freezes with his pants around his knees as Clint keeps talking. _“So uh this is Clint, the guy who--I left my ID at your place, like, a month ago? Fuck, time is weird. Anyways, we saw each other the other morning and things were kind of… Well, you gave me your number--god, I hope this is Bucky and not like a random business I’m leaving a weird message for--and I thought I’d call. See if you wanted to hook up again. Not like that. Maybe like that? I don’t know, I’m bad at talking to machines, but I guess call me back if you want. Oh, it’s Clint, by the way--”_ And then he rattles off a phone number and Bucky realizes that he’s never going to remember that, and he should probably finish getting undressed and listen to the message again and write down Clint’s number.

It takes him two more playthroughs of the message to actually write the phone number down. Clint’s awkward fumbling is distractingly cute.

He’s all set to call back when he gets a look at the clock and reality hits again. It’s almost one-thirty in the morning, Clint’s probably not even awake and probably not in the mood to talk to his random hook-up from almost a month ago if he is. With a sigh, Bucky pins the phone number to his fridge with a magnet, adds _CALL CLINT_ to it in block capitals, then stumbles his way through a shower and into bed.

He’ll call in the morning.

* * *

“So fun fact,” Bucky says between bites of his bagel, looking across the park rather than at the man next to him--fair, because Clint is staring more at his coffee than anything. “I was a little drunk last night when I got your message and I woke up to a note written _on my fridge_ that says ‘call cunt’ in all capitals.” He pauses while Clint snorts coffee. “I wrote it in sharpie. _On my fridge_.”

“My sympathies to your landlord.” Clint nudges him lightly. “So, drunk last night, huh? Meet anyone interesting?”

“Shut up. I don’t… what happened at the club… I’ve never done something like that before. Don’t know if I ever will again.”

Mercifully, Clint doesn’t keep teasing him. He takes another drink of coffee, leaning back and draping an arm over the park bench. Not quite as familiar as he’d been with Natasha the other morning--his _girlfriend_ , Bucky’s brain helpfully reminds him--but something close to it. “Why’d you do it that night, then? I mean, I know I’m irresistible or whatever, but…”

“I… Honestly? Because I _could_. Because the last of my official honorary discharge paperwork finally cleared that Thursday, and I was no longer government property, and _don’t ask, don’t tell_ no longer ruled my life. I didn’t have to hide anymore and I didn’t _want_ to hide anymore. I thought about going out with friends, but I wanted to go to a bar and… and feel what it’s like to just be who I really am.”

Clint nods slowly, and Bucky feels fingertips skate against the back of his neck, sending shivers up and down his spine. “Was it worth it?”

“Dunno, the guy I slept with bailed on me.” He grins, picking up his own coffee and taking a drink. 

“Good thing the asshole left his ID at your place, then, huh?”

“Yeah… Good thing. Even if the next time I see him, he’s got his arm around someone else.” Bucky turns his cup, watching Clint from the corner of his eye. “Why’d you call? Why meet up for breakfast? I thought you were a one night only kinda guy.” A _one night only_ kinda guy with a girlfriend--way to make a man feel used.

Clint’s hand drops from the back of his neck, before he stands, stretching his arms over his head and revealing a delicious glimpse of a toned stomach. “Talking on the phone is kinda hard, something something hearing aids,” he waves at his head vaguely, “so breakfast seemed like a better idea. And… I am a one night only kinda guy. It’s better for everyone that way. No attachments means no one gets hurt.” He looks around, before jerking his head. “Take a walk?”

It sounds like a good reason, sounds _true_ , but all he can think of is Clint’s arm around Natasha at the cafe Friday morning. It didn’t look like _no attachments_ from where he was standing. After a moment, Bucky follows, tossing his garbage as they pass a trash can, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “So why call me in the first place?” Why jerk him around like that?

“Natasha’s not my girlfriend,” Clint says instead, proving that Bucky is doing an outright shitty job of masking his hurt feelings. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re close, but we’re not like _that_. She’s more like a best friend.”

“She put a knife to my throat, Clint.”

“Yeah, she’s kinda like a poorly socialized cat.” He winces, looking around again. “Oh, she’s gonna kick my ass for that one. But--she’s been through some shit. We both have. And being watched makes her feel kinda… paranoid.”

“Okay… I’m not following.”

“You ever heard of SHIELD?” These non-sequiturs are making his head spin. Clint’s not answering questions, just jumping from one topic to the next, and Bucky’s about ready to call him crazy and take off. “No, you wouldn’t have-- _shouldn’t_ have, anyways. They’re the people I work for, a branch of homeland security. Just less _homeland_ and more… home planet. I know, it sounds crazy.”

“That’s a word for it. I don’t get what any of this has to do with--” _us_ , he wants to finish, but they’re not an _us_ , not by a long shot “--the night we fucked.” Keep it impersonal, like Clint seems to want to do.

“SHIELD, or at least my handler, chipped my ID. So when they realized I left it at your place, they put a tail on you. Nothing like one of their top agents getting his cover blown by a one night stand. I was out of the country at the time, dealing with a whole different kind of mess, or they probably would have dragged me over the coals for it.” He shrugs, almost casual, but Bucky swears that his eyebrows furrowed together for a moment. “Once you’d been vetted and come out clean, they stopped caring. But I didn’t get where I am by not following up on a lead when I see one, so… Gave your an opportunity to make your move. You gave me your number, so I called you.” Clint stops, turns to him with an open honesty on his face that Bucky genuinely hadn’t been expecting. “More than one night with me is dangerous, especially for a civilian, but… I dunno, I’ve barely been able to get you out of my head for the last three and a half weeks. Must mean something, right?”

“Right…” He fucked a secret agent. Oh, god, he’s a Bond girl. Bucky smiles, shakes his head a little. “There’s not a sniper waiting to take me out, is there?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Then…” Bucky licks his lips, sees the way Clint’s eyes dart down at the motion. He leans in closer, leans up on his toes just slightly, until their mouths are only an inch apart. “Then let’s see where this might go.”

“Could be dangerous,” Clint warns, closing half of the scant distance between them.

“Life’s dangerous.” Bucky’s eyes are locked on Clint’s, trying to read the storm of emotion there. He braces one hand against the other man’s chest, feeling his breath hitch. After another moment, he closes the distance between them, seals his lips against Clint’s and closes his eyes.

It’s slow, gentle, none of the urgency of that night after the club. He feels the arms that wrap around his waist, the safety and security of their strength. Tilts his head and deepens the kiss and--

And it’s so much more than just a _kiss_ , isn’t it? They’re not at a club, or on a midnight dark sidewalk with no one else around, or alone at Bucky’s place. They’re in the park at eleven in the morning on a Sunday, there are people all around them, some weaving around them because they stopped in the middle of the path to make out like a couple of assholes.

Clint nips at his lower lip, gentle, questioning, and all thought of the outside world flees Bucky’s mind. He parts his lips, invites Clint’s tongue in with his own, makes a soft noise of content into the continuing kiss. His hands slide over Clint’s chest, over his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him in even closer.

Life’s dangerous, but life’s also short. Too short to let Clint Barton be _one night only_ kinda guy. Too short to have spent as long as he did keeping part of himself hidden away. Too short not to take a chance.

He might get hurt, but if he gets more moments like this--breakfast and talking and kissing in the park--or more nights like the one that started it all--being called _beautiful_ and touched like he’s something precious and falling asleep beside a warm body--then it’s worth it, Bucky decides.

Clint’s worth the risk and Bucky only hopes that he is, too.


	3. Like Lightning In A Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever is between him and Bucky is incredibly dangerous for both of them. The wrong person that sees them holding hands or kissing or at each other’s apartments too often and Bucky’s life could be in danger._   
>  _That’s nothing, however, compared to the feeling Clint gets whenever he sees Bucky’s smile out in full force. Damn the consequences, he can’t leave this man looking disappointed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title Inspo: Electric Love by Børns.
> 
> This was supposed to be fluff but it grew a plot. Whoops.

The more Clint learns about Bucky, the more dangerous this _something_ between them becomes. It's the little things that come with waking up next to the same person two or more mornings in a row, the things that come from talking about something besides _you got condoms?_ and _how do you wanna fuck me?_ Things he's sworn he doesn't want to know about another person, doesn't need to.

He learns that Bucky likes to be the little spoon when they're sleeping, that he likes to be on Clint's left, that he hates mornings, and that he likes his coffee with enough cream and sugar to turn it into a dessert.

He learns that Bucky grew up in Brooklyn with normal parents and normal siblings who all still live in the city and who he sees on a regular basis. He has friends from high school and the army and work that he hangs out with sometimes, friends that he shyly, sweetly offers to introduce Clint to. He’s a normal person with a normal life.

And the more Bucky talks about himself, the more Clint feels the need to be able to share from his own life. He can’t talk about work, because S.H.I.E.L.D. is made of secrets and Secrets and _Secrets_ , and he doesn’t want to talk about his awful childhood--how to start the _my old man hit me until I hit him back hard enough to make him stop_ conversation is never a problem he’s had to tackle before--or his wayward teens in the circus, or his time as an on-again-off-again assassin until S.H.I.E.L.D. caught him and pointed his skills in a direction that they promise helps people. Clint can feel Bucky getting frustrated with his non-answers, his shrugs, and his subject changes, and all he wants to be able to do is tell this man something _true_.

It’s awful.

They’re at Clint’s place, up on the roof on a couple of deck chairs, sharing pizza and beers and shockingly, not fucking. He’s never had a hook-up at his place before, but Bucky’s been by a few times and stayed the night once even, and Clint has invited him over this time on a whim, needing to wind down after coming back from a job he’s trying not to think about. They’ve seen each other almost a dozen times over the last month, just regular enough to be called _routine_ but maybe not steady enough to be something more.

Bucky’s hand finds his near the pizza box, threads their fingers together gently and squeezes. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Clint lets the fingers touch him, feel the callouses from his bow string. “What’s up?”

“My work is having this thing, a kinda… well, a big dumb dress formal and drink nasty, expensive champagne thing. Real black tie affair that’s gonna be real boring. Small upside, though, it’s a masquerade if that’s your thing.” Bucky tilts his head towards him, smiles warm and open. “You wanna come with me, make it less boring?”

Clint’s heart pounds into his throat and he has to make an effort to casually take a drink of beer instead of bolting away. “When?” Maybe he’ll have a job, maybe he won’t have to think about how they’ve kept all their… Interactions? Dates? Hook-ups? To one apartment or the other. He’s not a _take home to mother_ type and he’s certainly not going to be able to reciprocate the whole _these are my work friends_ routine. He doesn’t even _have_ ‘work friends’ unless Coulson is supposed to count. Maybe Natasha.

“Friday night.”

Clint needs a moment on that one, blinking out at the sunset over New York. “Uh…”

“It’s Tuesday right now.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky shakes his head fondly, but his smile is a little wan around the edges. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Whatever is between him and Bucky is incredibly dangerous for both of them. The wrong person that sees them holding hands or kissing or at each other’s apartments too often and Bucky’s life could be in danger. 

That’s nothing, however, compared to the feeling Clint gets whenever he sees Bucky’s smile out in full force. Damn the consequences, he can’t leave this man looking disappointed. “I’d love to, Bucky. Just gotta, you know, buy a suit.”

That thousand-watt smile is going to be the death of him.

* * *

Okay, scratch that, _black tie affairs_ are going to be the death of him.

Clint tugs at the tie around his neck, trying to loosen it up into less of a stranglehold, only dropping his hand when Natasha shoots him a withering look. “Aw, come on, ‘Tasha,” he wheedles as she circles him. “Can’t I just wear, like, jeans? I can’t even hide a _knife_ in this thing, never mind a bow.”

Somehow, the look on her face gets even more withering. “Try wearing a cocktail dress. And stop messing with your tie.”

“Dress might look better…” He tilts his chin up, lets her adjust his tie and damn, she must have magic fingers, because while the tie is snug against the collar of his shirt, it’s no longer strangling him. Clint checks the clock in the corner again, shaking his head a little. They’ve been getting him ready for almost fifteen minutes now, it’s absurd. And that’s just clothes, never mind the haircut, the shaving, the shower--he looks like a damn pencil pusher. “You know, part of the reason I started working for S.H.I.E.L.D. was they didn’t have a dress code.”

“And Stark does. Deal with it.” A smile curls her lips briefly, a knife flashing in her hand before she slips it into his jacket. Next she picks up his mask, allowing Clint to slip the black and purple fabric over his head. Custom sewn so that it doesn’t sit too close to his ears and mess with his hearing aids. “There. As good as you’re going to get.”

“I regret teaching you to have a sense of humor.” Clint turns to the mirror as she steps away, looking himself up and down slowly. “Okay, but I do look hot. Can’t wait for Bucky to rip this off me later.”

Behind him, Natasha’s lips purse, her arms cross, but she doesn’t say anything. He’s already given himself the lecture enough times that she doesn’t have to. It’s not like this is _love_ , though, he’s just… found someone that helps him unwind. Which is completely acceptable and not at all dangerous to his work.

Even Clint doesn’t actually believe that.

He’s spared her looks by the phone ringing, and Natasha walks away to answer it while Clint gets his shoes on. They’re formal, shining black and square-toed, but the soles are still flat. Arch support is for suckers.

“It’s for you,” Natasha says as she comes back, handing him the phone and giving his outfit one more up-and-down.

Clint raises an eyebrow, but he puts the phone to his ear anyways. “Barton.”

“I have a job for you.”

“Aw, Coulson, no--wait, how did you know where I was?”

Coulson’s tone remains the same as always. The man might have had a sense of humor once, but Clint’s pretty sure that his suit and tie strangled it. “We chipped you last time you got a physical. Tony Stark is supposed to be in Manhattan tonight for the Stark Industries Manhattan opening. We need you to tail him.”

“I have the night off.”

“You’re going to be at the event anyways, Barton. Your name is on that very exclusive guest list.” There’s a pause, Coulson waiting for him to confirm the assignment, Clint wracking his brain for a way out. “ _Barton_.”

“Right, okay. Tailing Stark. What’re the details?”

“It’s an A-level assignment. We only need observations. Behavioral analysis, any strange contacts he makes, things like that. You shouldn’t have to engage.”

Clint makes a mental note to stash a bow and quiver closer to the party, because _shouldn’t have to engage_ usually ends in a firefight for him. “Got it. Any more specifics? What’s my report in time?”

“Report in at 0800 tomorrow at the main office. We want as much of a profile as you can gather. And Barton, remember that you’re on the clock.” Coulson disconnects the call and Clint hangs up, passing the phone back to Natasha. 

On the clock. Right. That means--”Aw, man, I can’t even drink the nasty, expensive champagne!”

* * *

An A-level assignment also means that he can’t tell Bucky about it. Which is arguably the hardest part of the night, because two minutes after they arrive, the other man is offering to get drinks for them. Clint shakes his head a little, offering a smile that he hopes is convincing. “You know what I get like when I drink, do you really want that in front of your coworkers?”

Bucky frowns, but he doesn’t push the issue. He comes back with two glasses of water instead, passing one over and letting his hand brush against Clint’s briefly. “You’re not regretting this, right?”

He’s regretting turning what should be a nice night out with a guy he likes who miraculously likes him back into a job. He’s regretting the shoes, which are nowhere near as comfortable to stand in as he’d been hoping. He’s not regretting getting to see Bucky in a well tailored suit, however. And that mask--it accents his cheekbones in a way Clint can only describe as _delicious_. “Black tie isn’t my normal style, is all,” Clint offers, taking a drink and looking around. It’s cocktail hour, followed by dinner, and somewhere in there is rumored to be an appearance by Tony Stark himself, hopefully before the midnight unmasking. There are men in nice suits and women in short, tight dresses, all of them wearing elaborate masks. He’d be feeling awkward and out of place here anyways, but knowing that he’s on the job just makes it worse.

“Me either, really.” Bucky grins, tugging at his own tie. “But when duty calls, you know?”

“I feel like a Secret Service agent.” Clint laughs a little, touching his ear briefly. “And if my hearing aids weren’t purple I’d probably look like one.”

“I swear if you start a game of Get Down, Mr. President here…”

“A game of what?”

Bucky’s look is incredulous enough to read through his mask. “Really? God, what did you _do_ in high school?”

“I, uh, didn’t go to high school.” He takes a sip of water to try to cover his embarrassment, looking away briefly. “I’m not exactly _Fresh Prince_ material, Bucky, things weren’t normal for me and then one day I got flipped upside down into being a… whatever I am now.”

Bucky eyes him for a moment, before reaching out, squeezing his hand briefly. “Well, right now, you’re my date for the night. So let’s go mingle, I’ll introduce you to some people and you can make me look impressive by saying that you’d tell people about yourself, but you’d have to kill them.” He smiles, leads Clint across the floor and--

And it’s so _easy_ to be with Bucky that he almost forgets he’s on the job. Stark is still in the back of his mind, but he hasn’t made an appearance at the party by the end of cocktail hour. When they sit down to dinner, a different man takes the stage to give a speech ‘on Mr. Stark’s behalf,’ congratulating the Manhattan staff for all of their hard work and dedication in getting the site up and running. “The Manhattan project has been arduous at times, but I’m sure that if Tony were here, he’d agree with me that it’s been worth every second and wouldn’t be where it is without all of you.”

Under the clapping that fills the room, Clint leans over to Bucky. “Manhattan project? What, did you guys secretly build a bomb?”

“I mean, it’s no secret that we’re weapons manufacturers, but actually our branch is working on the universal clean energy outreach.”

“Huh.” He sits up straight again as waiters come by with their dinner, loses himself a little in food and conversation. Stark isn’t here, it’s hard to tail a man that doesn’t show up. And it’s not like Clint can just go exploring to _find_ him.

His 0800 report in is going to suck even more than morning debriefs usually suck.

The urge to call a mission abort and start drinking is strong, but he knows better. If Coulson says to keep an eye on Stark, Stark is going to show up. He’s sat his ass out in a sniper’s nest on Coulson’s intel more than once, convinced that the intel was bad, and always been proven wrong when his target wanders into his shot. This isn’t that kind of job, but Clint knows his work well enough to believe that Stark _will_ make an appearance and he _will_ need to be ready for it.

Doesn’t mean he’s not still surprised.

Everyone’s heard of Tony Stark, even a circus freak like him. Everyone knows his reputation and how he’s earned it. He’s a genius in not just his own field but nearly every field he puts his hands to--robotics, AI, weapons, name it and if it catches his attention for more than any hour, Tony Stark will have mastered it, perfected it, and improved it within a year. He’s a billionaire who grew up with daddy’s money in his pocket and turned Howard Stark’s millions into his own billions. He’s a playboy, on the arm of a different person every time he shows his face in public, sometimes multiple different people at the same event. And he’s a philanthropist, reputed to match every donation to the Stark Foundation out of his own pocket (which reads like a tax haven, according to the least boring accountant he’s ever talked to. Not that she did much talking after Clint got his face between her legs).

He’s also well known for a love of loud music and flashy entrances, and Clint gets both.

The feedback whine in his hearing aids is his only warning and he has time to go for his knife, to think _under attack, civilians out first, find source_ , before the music starts over the speakers, blasting in ACDC and when he looks around again, there’s Tony Stark on stage, recognizable even under his elaborate mask. Lucky bastard is wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Black tie his ass.

“Can’t believe that’s my boss,” Bucky says over the music, clapping along with everyone else. Clint shakes his head and laughs, watching as Stark does some air guitar along with the song.

“You ever talk to him in person?” he asks as things finally die down, as the wait staff rushes around to bring Stark a microphone so he can give his own speech.

“Over the phone once during installation of the AI. My supervisor was supposed to do it, but she had an emergency with her daughter and it got shoved at me. I was terrified, but as long as you can keep up with him, Tony’s actually pretty chill.”

Clint nods, making mental notes. It’s obvious, even to him, why S.H.I.E.L.D. is so interested in Stark--beyond where his weapons might be sold. The greatest mind of a generation, the Da Vinci of their time, the Merchant of Death… If anyone can build a defense for the world against what S.H.I.E.L.D. knows is out there, it’s probably Stark. 

“Whoa, hey, okay, I wasn’t planning on making a speech--that’s what you’re here for, huh, Johnson? But alright, since they gave me a microphone and I love to hear my own voice…” Stark grins, walking back and forth across the stage. “You know, back in the ‘40s, they had this thing called the _Manhattan Project_. Way beyond top secret. They wouldn’t even let my father work on it, if you believe his press statements. That project made bombs, weapons like humanity had never seen before, weapons like humanity has sworn to never use again. Yeah, we really kept up that deal, huh?” Gentle, nervous laughter floods the room and Stark shakes his head. “Anyways, this isn’t a history lesson. This isn’t a lecture about the awful things humanity has done. First stones and all that, yeah, yeah. This is about the new Manhattan project. This is about what you all helped to build. Not a world of war and death, but a world where humanity can thrive without tearing through our planet’s limited resources. When the next generation reads about the Manhattan project in their textbooks, I want them to read about our brave first steps in putting right what we’ve done wrong in the past. I want them to know that the true saviors of Earth’s future are the people in this room.” More applause, this time more emphatic. The man has a way with words, Clint will give him that. Tony lets it flow over the room for a moment, before holding up a hand. “But you know the thing I really want? I want this party to _feel_ like a party!”

The music starts up again, not quite as loud thankfully, but certainly changing the atmosphere from a formal event to something more casual. Clint clocks the shift in the wait staff, how the delicate champagne flutes are swapped for beer bottles and whiskey glasses. He turns to Bucky, raising his eyebrow.

“Your boss is weird, man.”

“I prefer eccentric, actually,” someone says behind him before Bucky can answer.

Clint whips around, has a moment to curse himself--how the hell did he let someone get _behind_ him like that?--before he registers that it’s Tony Stark. Next to him, Bucky goes red-faced, and Clint flounders for a moment. “I, uh, it wasn’t an insult--”

“I’m sure. You’re Barnes, right? Hard to tell with the masks.” Stark turns to Bucky as he nods slowly, holding out his hand. “Great job with the AI installation, especially on short notice. You’ve got a real touch with computers. NYU or MIT?”

“Fort Jackson, actually.”

“Military man who decides to go for clean energy instead of weapons? Interesting.”

Bucky shrugs, still a little flushed. “I like to think of myself as someone who looks to the future. Sir.”

Stark waves off the formality. “Well, you did a good job. Not a lot of people can actually keep up with me on a computer. Your supervisor, Hannah Weeks, how is she?”

“She’s good. Her daughter got the flu and had to be picked up from school that day, so the installation landed in my lap. Just glad I was able to follow along.”

There’s nothing about this man that raises Clint’s alert. Doubtless he’s selling his weapons to the highest bidder without a thought about morals, but Clint’s not in any position to take a high horse about that. As for strange contacts… Bucky’s been pointing people out to him all evening, and just about everyone here is a Stark Industries employee. Some of the guests are questionable, maybe, but short of following Stark around and eavesdropping, he’s not going to pick up much. If Coulson knew he was on the guest list, it’s likely that he has a comprehensive list of everyone Bucky’s pointed out to Clint and who they brought, and it’s likely S.H.I.E.L.D. is running their own background checks on these people.

“...Clint Barton, my…” Bucky pauses and Clint tunes back into the conversation, forcing a smile onto his face. Both men are looking at him. “Friend.”

He missed his own introduction. Hopefully that’s not too awkward. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

Stark doesn’t seem perturbed by Clint’s awkward, zoned-out fumbling. He gives Bucky another handshake, before walking away from their table to another.

Clint turns back to Bucky, his smile a little more settled. “Sorry. Got lost in my head for a second.”

“You were kinda looking at him like… Nevermind. I’m sure a lot of people do.”

“Wh--hey, no.” He touches Bucky’s cheek below his mask gently, turns the man back to face him and leans in, kisses him softly. “A little starstruck, maybe, but I’m here with you tonight and I’m going home with _you_ tonight. If you wanna head out together, that is.”

“The super-spy is starstruck by _my_ life? Yeah, right.” Still, Bucky kisses him again, squeezes his knee briefly under the table. “Let’s head back to your place, put on some more comfortable clothes, and grab a pizza.”

That sounds like a dream come true. He’d pay good money to be able to take this fucking tie off. Clint opens his mouth to agree, when motion catches his eye. Stark heading down a corridor with a woman Bucky hadn’t recognized under her mask. Could be nothing.

Could be exactly why he was sent here.

He sets his hand over Bucky’s, squeezing quickly. “Just let me hit the bathroom and then we’ll go, okay?” He’s up before the other man can answer, ducks into the bathroom and locks himself in a stall. Clint pulls out his right hearing aid, adjusting the frequency before putting it back in. “Coulson?”

“Barton. How’s your evening going?”

“I’m sober and this tie is going to strangle me. Have you got the guest list in front of you?”

There’s a moment of quiet typing, before Coulson comes back. “I do. Who do you need?”

Bucky hadn’t recognized the woman, but he’d known who she was with--Gordon Johnson, the man in charge of the entire project. “Who came with Gordon Johnson?”

More quiet typing, then a low curse. “Whitney Frost is the name on the guest list. A known alias for--”

“Madame Masque. I read _some_ of the briefings.”

“You’re a credit to your job, Barton. You ID’d her?”

He shakes his head. “Not directly. Saw Stark heading somewhere private with the woman that came with Gordon Johnson. Could be a coincidence, but her mask is pretty noteworthy. I’m--” the door opens, drunken voices and laughter echoing into the room, but only one set of footsteps. The sounds from the party cut off as the door shuts, and there’s no more noise in the room. Clint clicks his hearing aid back over to the world around him, rather than the frequency he uses with Coulson.

It could still be nothing, so he flushes the toilet and goes to wash his hands. There’s another man in the room, standing near the door and looking at him, arms crossed. Internally, Clint sighs.

 _Shouldn’t have to engage_ his ass.

He doesn’t waste time with planning ahead, just grabs Gordon Johnson and practically throws him into a stall. Johnson is really no match for him, his efforts to fight, to yell, easily stopped as Clint bars an arm across his throat and claps a hand over his mouth. “I don’t want anything from you but answers, Johnson. That woman you came here with, what does she want with Stark?”

Johnson’s eyes widen under his mask, his breath coming in frantic little wheezes. When Clint moves his hand away, the man licks his lips impulsively before speaking. “She just said she had a business proposal with him. Her family has made some weighty contributions to the Stark Foundation in years past, and I told her that she could talk business with me, but she insisted on seeing Tony.” Clint can read a mark when he has to--and in his life, he’s had to a lot. He spots the lies in Johnson’s story almost as second nature.

“A business proposal that requires privacy? What does she want to buy? Or is it that she’s selling?”

“She wouldn’t tell me, please, I swear--”

Johnson’s too freaked out to talk. Clint could maybe convince him with a knife, but he’s rapidly losing time. If this ‘business proposal’ goes south, he’s pretty sure he knows how it ends.

“Where would he take her to be alone? To talk business?”

“Stark always rents out the hotel penthouse for himself and any of his _special guests_ when we have a function like this. He’s probably on his way up there with her.”

“Good to know.” Clint pats the man’s shoulder, before pulling back and punching him in the face. Gordon Johnson drops onto the toilet like a sack of bricks and Clint ducks out of the stall. Thankfully, no one else has come in during their little chat.

There’s not a lot of time to waste. Clint exits the bathroom quickly, finds Bucky near the front door and slips in closer to him, his hand trailing along the other man’s arm. “I really hate to be that guy, but do you mind if I just head home alone? I found out right before we got here that I have work in the morning.” Not entirely a lie, he’s just leaving out the fact that he has work right now.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, but he nods. “You could have told me, we could have left sooner. Done something we’d both actually enjoy before you disappear again.”

“I did enjoy this,” Clint says, a little too fast, a little too honest. He leans in, kisses Bucky soft and sweet. “I like being with you, I get to feel normal. Let’s go, I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

They slip outside and he sees Bucky into a cab, promises to get his own and be safe on his next job.

As soon as the tail lights are out of sight, he spins on his heel, heads back towards the hotel--not the party entrance but the main lobby. He needs a plan, he needs his bow, and he needs access to Stark’s penthouse suite before Madame Masque does something crazy.

He is _never_ taking on a job while on a date again, Clint lies to himself as he finally undoes his tie, shoving the silky purple fabric into his pocket. He opens up the top two buttons on his shirt, undoes the cuffs, musses his hair, and puts a stumble in his step as he goes inside. The mask can stay on, it might make him marginally harder to identify later if things go sideways.

Things normally go sideways.

The front desk doesn’t seem at all surprised to have a drunk man in stuffy formal attire in their lobby. Clint flashes a crooked smile, leaning on the desk heavier than strictly necessary. “Hey, um, the Stark party…”

The man behind the desk smiles and nods, discreetly tipping his head to the side as he slides a keycard over. “I can have someone escort you to your room if you’d like, sir.”

Of course Stark didn’t just rent out one room, but probably the whole ass hotel. Considering how the party was ramping up when he sent Bucky home, Clint figures there’s going to be a lot of people like him in the coming hours. Most of them probably won’t be acting, though. “Nah, I got it.”

He staggers into the elevator, gives a wide grin and a wave as the doors slide shut. As soon as the car’s moving, he’s pulling out his hearing aid again and switching the frequency. “Coulson.”

“Barton.”

“Johnson didn’t have any worthwhile information he’s willing to share. Have a team pick him up from the men’s room in Ballroom C as soon as you can. The only thing he’d give me was that she had a business proposal for Stark and that they’re in the penthouse suite of the hotel, I’m on my way up to room,” he glances at the keycard, “616. Any back-up on the way?”

“Negative for back-up, but I can have your bow delivered. Do you have a strategy?”

“Yeah, get up to the penthouse, kick some supervillain ass, then act like I didn’t just meet Stark downstairs half an hour ago.”

Coulson audibly shakes his head, which shouldn’t be possible, but dammit, Clint swears he just heard it. “Try using some subtlety. There’s an empty office building across the street, you can snipe from there.”

“How the hell am I supposed to--”

“Figure it out, Barton. Your supplies will be waiting for you in your room. Out.”

Clint makes a face at the mirrored elevator door, putting the staggering-drunk-and-happy look back on as he goes for his room. He swipes the keycard and lets himself in, crosses to the balcony without bothering to turn any lights on. There’s his bow case, leaned up against the railing, along with his quiver. One of these days, he’s going to figure out how the hell S.H.I.E.L.D. pulls this stuff off.

He ditches his jacket and shoes in the hotel room, tucking the knife into his pants at the small of his back instead. Clint flips through his arrows carefully before selecting one, turning and assessing the building across the street.

God, this is a stupid plan.

He shoots anyways, tugs the line of the grappling arrow to make sure it’s secure. Without his proper equipment he can’t hook the carabiner at the end onto anything, but improvisation is unfortunately one of his skills. This is going to hurt like a bitch and shred his only pair of socks without holes in them.

Clint rides the line up to the other building, cursing under his breath the whole way. Nevermind how suicidally dangerous this whole plan is, he’s never been a fan of the whole trapeze act, even when he’s done it. And there’s definitely no safety net down there.

Sightlines to the penthouse are clear, however, and it doesn’t take a Tony Stark level genius to figure out what’s happening as soon as he gets the pair of them in his scope. Madame Masque might be on top of a half-naked Stark, but it’s far from consensual and even farther from sex. He loads up and lines up through the open balcony door, voice low. “You want her slowed down or stopped, Coulson?”

“Your call, you’re the only one with eyes on the situation.”

The weird part is, Stark should probably already be dead. Madame Masque isn’t one to play the game longer than she has to, according to S.H.I.E.L.D. records. Sure, she’s into the whole manipulate-men-to-get-what-she-wants thing, but she had at least a fifteen minute head start on him. So what the hell slowed her down? And what did she _want_ from Stark?

The arrowhead will deliver a stun blast strong enough to temporarily take down just about anyone as soon as he hits the button on his bow. Or he can let it pierce her heart, stop her completely. “I’m not a fucking acrobat anymore,” Clint whispers, twitching his aim down and firing.

It pierces through the night, smooth and silent as a ghost, sticks into its target and makes her jerk upright. Clint taps the button even as he loads another grappling hook, hoping that he doesn’t fall to his death or cut his toes off or something. The time for careful planning is long past, now it’s all about movement. One action into the next.

He’s just grateful there’s no broken glass to land in.

Madame Masque is still twitching on the ground, an arrow sticking out of the base of her spine. Stark has scrambled backwards, his eyes wide, his mouth working. Clint waves a little awkwardly.

“Who… who the _hell_ are you?”

“Uh… Just your friendly neighborhood arrow guy?” He steps closer to Madame Masque, pulls the arrow out and rolls her over. That’s her alright, golden mask and everything. Good to know he didn’t just interrupt something kinky. “She’s down but she’s not out, Coulson. Stark’s gonna need a debrief. Get me an extract at the penthouse balcony?”

“There’s a jet en route. ETA five minutes.”

“ _Five_?!” He sighs, glancing over to Stark. “You got any--”

Madame Masque moves. Clint sees it from the corner of his eye and he’s almost ready for it. She sweeps his feet out from under him, tackles him into the stumble. They crash through a table, shattering glass. Dammit.

Now it’s hands at _his_ throat and yeah he’s kind of a kinky fucker, but this isn’t his idea of a good time. Clint shoves his arms up to break her hold, coughing out a breath. He’s still got the arrow in one hand.

Moving fast, he jabs it into her neck, thumbs the button on his bow with his other hand. She goes stiff over him before collapsing all her weight onto him, twitching slightly as the stun current passes through her. That arrowhead only has one charge left on it, and it’s only taking her out for a couple of minutes.

“Got any cuffs?” He asks Stark, a little breathless. 

“Right, sure, I just keep _handcuffs_ with me all the time--” Stark runs his hands through his hair, before picking his tie up from over a lamp, warily crossing the room. He binds Madame Masque’s hands behind her back quickly and Clint finally shoves her off. Not far, however. He puts a knee on her chest, keeps his eyes on her masked face. “What the hell just happened?” Stark asks, sounding only a little less harried.

“What sort of business was she proposing? Or was it just the choking thing?”

“What--no--she just started to--” Stark’s words are stumbling, but his tone is calming quickly. Too quickly, in Clint’s opinion. He glances over and--yup, the guy seems barely fazed by what just happened now that it’s no longer happening. “I’m guessing she just wanted to kill me. Fuck, I need a drink.”

“What was she after, Stark?”

“She wasn’t after anything.”

“If you don’t tell us, we’re just going to get her to talk. Weapons? Tech? Maybe she’s being the middle man for a deal with someone else?” Below him, Madame Masque groans, and Clint doesn’t hesitate to crack her in the temple with his bow. “Shut up, you’re not being interrogated yet. Come on, Stark, talk.”

“I know you,” he says instead, all pretense of residual panic gone from his voice. “You were at the party, with Barnes. Is he in on whatever this is, or are you just using him?”

That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. A sting deep in his chest. Clint takes his eyes off Madame Masque for a second, lets down his guard for just a _moment_ \--

It’s enough. For her, of course it is. She throws him, not into a table this time but into Stark. Clint has time to draw back the string on his bow, even as he realizes he doesn't have a nocked arrow, and then she’s over the balcony, a swan dive to the streets below.

He runs to the railing and looks over, knowing what he’ll see. Madame Masque didn’t become who she is by not having contingency upon contingency. Sure enough, the streets far below are quiet, traffic flowing regularly. However she did it, she’s out of their hands now.

Clint groans in frustration. “She got away, Coulson.”

It’s quiet in his ear for a long time, before Coulson’s voice finally comes, a single softly spoken word. “Dammit.”

* * *

Meeting for breakfast is starting to be a regular thing.

Clint takes the temporary ID badge at the front desk, lets a security guard lead him to Bucky’s office. He has coffee--one black, one loaded with cream and sugar--and maple bacon donuts from the cafe in the lobby. He’s definitely under-dressed for Stark Industries, but screw it, sweatpants are comfortable and Bucky deserves the surprise.

And the apology.

He knocks lightly at the door to Bucky’s office, holding up the tray of coffees and the bag of donuts and grinning sheepishly. When he’d called, Bucky had been brusque on the phone, but he hadn’t told Clint not to do this. Maybe he still has a chance of making this work.

Whatever _this_ is and whyever he wants it to work.

They sit in awkward silence on either side of Bucky’s desk, drinking their coffees and eating their donuts. Clint looks down, scratching at one of the bandages on his face. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“You almost got me fired, Clint. Johnson came in here ready to put my head on a pike Monday morning, and the only thing that saved my job was Stark coming by and saying that my date Friday night had saved his life. Then he fired Johnson on the spot for letting some ‘choke happy masked psycho’ come to the party.”

Clint winces. “So maybe it’s more like an apology.” He sighs, looking up and forcing himself to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I told you, I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Yeah, a branch of homeland security that deals with planet-wide threats. You’re a secret agent.”

“I’m… more or less, yeah. Except I guess the right word to use is, um, superhero?” Clint laughs a little, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t have, like, powers or something--I’m no Captain America, if he was ever even real. But I have a real specific skill set and S.H.I.E.L.D. puts that to work. Protecting people.”

“People like Tony Stark.”

Clint hisses in a breath. “When the job calls for it.”

“And me?” Bucky asks softly, looking down at the last sips of his coffee. “What’s a guy like me to you? Just a means to an end?”

He exhales, forces himself to wait until Bucky looks up again, to maintain the honesty of eye contact. “No. I wanted to--to go with you. To do something that would make you happy. S.H.I.E.L.D. turned it into a job for me, and I can’t turn them down. I… I owe them too much of my life. Or maybe it’s just that they own too much of my life.” He shakes his head, pushes that away. “Bucky, I like you. And maybe I ruined that, and I’m sorry, but… You’re the first person I’ve met that’s felt worth taking a chance with. The first person that I’ve wanted to wake up next to, morning after morning. I can’t promise you that there’s no more secrets, but--but the things I _can_ tell you, I will. If… If that’s good enough.”

The office is quiet, only the low hum of computer fans, the murmur of voices outside. Clint escapes to his own almost empty coffee cup, but when he looks up again Bucky’s studying him, his face unreadable.

“Or I can walk out of your life forever, if that’s what you’d prefer,” he offers, already pushing his chair back.

“Clint.” Bucky’s voice stops him, steady and soft, warm and kind. “I like you, too. And if you think I’m worth taking a chance with… then let’s take a chance together.” He stands, moves around the desk and leans down, plants a gentle kiss against Clint’s lips. “Dinner, tonight, my place. I’ll cook and you can start telling me about yourself. Feels like I do all the talking when we’re together.”

Clint tilts his head up as Bucky pulls away, catches him in another kiss. “I grew up in Waverly, Iowa,” he offers up immediately, grinning crookedly. “Wasn’t a farm boy, though. Dinner, your place, tonight. I’ll talk.”

The more Bucky learns about him, the more dangerous the situation will get. Heartbreak is on the horizon, that’s what a fortune teller would probably say.

Well, maybe the horizon is a long ways off, and maybe some things--some people--are worth the risk. He won’t know unless he tries, and Bucky feels worth trying for.

This _something_ between them feels worth fighting for, no matter how dangerous it becomes.


End file.
